


The Second Hand Unwinds

by connerluthorkent



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aging, Body Image, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Out, Melancholy, Nostalgia, Old Age, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s05e12 The Beginning..., Reunions, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24864628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connerluthorkent/pseuds/connerluthorkent
Summary: After their unexpected encounter with that mysterious overgrown bat, Oswald and Ed retire to the manor to figure out where to go from here.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 153
Kudos: 259





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The start of some post-series get-together wistful fluff that got away from me! This can be read as a prequel to my other fic "Love Like a Diamond on an Endless Chain" if you're so inclined, but absolutely stands on its own. 
> 
> Title taken from _Time After Time_ by Cyndi Lauper.

Ten years is a long time to be away from someone. Oswald had mused about it, on dark, idle nights in Blackgate. Wondered if time might dampen his feelings. Speculated that separation had painted a glossy edge over the image of Ed in his mind's eye, so that if he ever saw Ed again, reality would come crashing back down. That he might discover his feelings altered, his love finally having fizzled out over time.

He had taken one look at Ed when he was unceremoniously shoved into the back of the limo, at his glittering green coat covered in question marks and the rough sloping cut of his hair, and known he was a fool to even contemplate it.

He loves him every ounce as much as he had that morning at the breakfast table when he'd announced his intention to confess his feelings to a disinterested Olga. The feeling smolders in his chest every bit as bright and warm and burning as it always has. A fire that has weathered the icy waters of Miller Harbor and the cold press of Ed's gun against his throat, survived every betrayal and double cross and back stab, and never wavered. Not even once.

A flame that would not be blown out, that could not die.

Ed’s got a hand in the small of Oswald’s back. The other is curled around Oswald’s free arm, the one that isn’t clutching his stolen umbrella like a makeshift cane. It’s an instinctive stance Ed had fallen into as soon as they’d turned the corner away from that hideous man-bat creature. A lingering vestige of the six months before they were incarcerated, when the loss of Oswald's eye found Edward playing the role of guide more often than not. 

Again, ten years is a _long time_ to be apart. There’s an intimacy to _this_ that feels far too casual for two people who haven’t seen each other, not even once, in all that time. 

What’s more, it isn’t even the first time Ed has assumed such a position _tonight_. 

The first time they had seen that _thing_ , Ed had automatically clutched Oswald tightly, then flung a hand protectively across Oswald’s belly at their second sighting. 

When they’d fallen off the armored car, he'd grabbed Oswald's arm and helped him to his feet instantly. He held steady as they mugged that schmuck with the bowler hat, the decision made with nothing more than a shared loaded glance between them. 

Ed had latched on and held tight, his touch lingering far longer than strictly necessary, if his only intention had been helping Oswald keep his balance.

He’s been doing that _all night_ , touching Oswald far more often than is needed. 

Oswald can only recall Ed touching him this casually and incessantly twice before—in the early days of his mayorship and the six months after No Man’s Land, leading up to their incarceration. 

And, even then, it had hardly been this urgent, this _constant_. It’s almost as if Ed can’t _stop_ , like he’s trying to ground himself to the reality of the situation through touch alone.

Oswald knows the feeling.

Still, that all pales in comparison to the utter shock Oswald had felt when—as they flailed ineffectually against that lamppost, hung up like two hogs to slaughter—Ed had reached over and grabbed his hand, gripping it tightly. A jolt had shot up Oswald's spine at the unexpected touch, sudden and disarming, but he'd squeezed Ed's hand back just as tightly, even as they writhed and swore curses into the sky at their long vanished assailant.

And, then, Ed hadn’t let go. 

Not in front of Pennyworth and Fox. Not when the two fresh-faced GCPD lackeys showed up to arrest them. Not until he had to, when they'd been physically forced apart, handcuffed and thrown roughly into the back of that prison transport vehicle.

The entire time Ed just held Oswald's hand, warm and steady, in his own.

The touch made Oswald’s chest _ache_. Makes it ache even now. 

It had just been so _long_ since anyone touched him with anything other than ill intent. He wondered, during his long incarceration, if anyone ever would again. Worried still that he might be too far gone to do anything other than lash out at anyone that tried to. 

Instead, the steady weight of Ed’s hand in his elbow makes something in Oswald’s chest _crumple_. He finds himself wanting nothing more than to bury his face in Ed’s too bony shoulder and _sob_.

Oswald grits his teeth against the impulse. He clenches his fist as a reminder not to lean into Ed’s touch too eagerly, or clamp his hand down on top of Ed’s own and hang on too tight.

It’s the dead of night, he’s been out of prison for less than 24 hours, and he’s strolling down the street with Edward Nygma, the press of his hand solid in the center of Oswald’s back.

Oh, and they're arguing.

It's been less than four hours together, so of course they are. When aren’t they?

“Where to next?” Ed had chirped as soon as they were out of sight of the city’s unexpected nocturnal intruder.

Oswald had met his query with an automatic, “The manor.”

He could hardly have anticipated the ensuing dispute such an answer would provoke.

“What?” he demands.

He’s agitated, uneasiness blooming in his stomach at the frown marring Ed’s face, his reaction to Oswald’s rapid-fire response.

“Do you really think that’s wise?” Ed asks, the doubt creeping into his tone setting Oswald’s teeth on edge. 

His heart rate spikes, nervous energy racing through his veins. Oswald steels himself as he realizes this may be the moment Ed suggests they part ways.

“I’m just suggesting,” Ed goes on, “that perhaps we should consider our options. Maybe hunker down in the city for the night instead."

_We_. It makes Oswald’s heart flutter foolishly in his chest, that slightest of implications that wherever they go, they'll go together. 

_You_ , he scolds himself mentally, _are a lovestruck old fool, and you ought to know better_. 

“After all,” Ed adds thoughtfully, “it's been a... _taxing_ evening. Seeking alternative lodging seems like a perfectly logical next step." 

Oswald can see Ed, sizing him up, the gears in his head turning. He’s already anticipating the rebuttal that is sure to follow, mentally maneuvering himself to cut Oswald off. So much so, he's pulled out his chief of staff voice. That I'm-so-reasonable, don't-be-hysterical-Oswald voice. 

Oswald _hates_ that voice. 

He's missed it so much he could weep.

That hardly means he’s about to just _cave_ to it, however.

“The manor has already been prepped and set up for my arrival,” Oswald counters, and he can practically _feel_ Ed rolling his eyes, even without looking, “I see no reason we shouldn’t make the effort to relocate there and regroup.”

“ _Oswald_ ,” Ed huffs, exasperated, “we’re not exactly getting any younger.”

This time, Oswald _does_ see Ed eye him skeptically, and his hackles rise immediately at the scrutiny.

He stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, Ed stuttering to a halt as well beside him. Oswald draws in a steadying breath before he turns to face Ed abruptly.

“This is about my physique, isn’t it?” he demands flatly.

As he raises himself to his full height, he juts up his chin combatively, determined to conceal his hurt under haughtiness. 

The blank look Ed gives him in response makes him want to snarl, to scratch away the confused line appearing between Ed’s eyebrows, like a physical manifestation of the question marks he’s sporting all over his person.

“What are you talking about?” Ed asks, seeming genuinely puzzled.

“What I am talking about, Edward,” Oswald says slowly, faux patient, “is this!” 

He gestures emphatically to himself, hands waving over the length of his body, encompassing the new girth that clings to his frame, particularly at his waistline. 

Confusion clings to Ed’s face before he reels back ever so slightly, realization dawning.

“No, that isn’t it at all!" he exclaims, voice adamant. “Did you miss the part where I _just_ said how goodyou look back in the limo?!"

Heat rises to Oswald’s face at the words, feeling thrown entirely off-kilter. 

Ed’s reaction when seeing him again had been...unexpected, to say the least. However, his comment about Oswald’s newfound “thickness” could just have easily been a thinly concealed jab, rather than the compliment his delight afterward seemed to suggest. 

But _this_ seems far less easy to misinterpret.

Oswald glances up at Ed cautiously, expecting him to catch himself and splutter out some kind of correction that will clarify his choice of words. But he doesn’t, just continues to stare at Oswald openly, that look of unabashed earnestness lingering on his face. 

There’s been a strange sort of sincerity cloaked around him all night. In his words, his actions and reactions. So different from Ed as Oswald had known him, just before they were incarcerated. 

That Ed had concealed every kind word or tender look beneath a heavy air of careful composure. Irritation or elation had been the only emotions powerful enough to crack his facade, even as there seemed to be _something_ unspokenlurking just beneath the surface. 

A gentleness that appeared in Ed’s smile just after Oswald had lost his eye, then lingered in those whirlwind months they spent trying to build back their empire, electricity crackling in the air. Like they were on the precipice of something _more_ just before it had been so cruelly snatched away from them. 

The Ed before him now seems to be having a much more difficult time filtering the flow from his brain to his mouth. Or, perhaps, he’s just given up trying.

“Oh,” Oswald murmurs, abashed as his whole body deflates, “well.” 

A long beat of silence passes as Ed contemplates him, eyes serious. 

" _We're_ not getting any younger, Oswald," he repeats, voice a tad softer as he makes a circular gesture with his hand, enveloping the both of them.

Oswald nods, hoping Ed can read the acceptance on his face. 

Still, he doesn’t miss the opening to further his case.

"So,” he says, carefully casual, “you're saying _you're_ too incapacitated to make it out to the mansion?"

Ed’s eyes narrow slightly. He worries at his shiny bottom lip with his teeth, looking shifty.

"No," he finally admits, sounding breathless as a wide grin blooms across his face, eyes glittering, "I feel _exhilarated_."

"Well, that settles it then," Oswald replies, clipped and prim, leaving no room for argument. "We're heading back to the manor."

“And how exactly do you propose we _do_ that?” Ed asks, lips twitching at the corners. “In case you haven’t noticed, we sort of lost our ride.”

“Yes, Edward, I am perfectly aware we ‘lost our ride,” Oswald mimics, huffing in exasperation. “But are we not a pair of the most formidable villains this city has ever seen? Surely, between the two of us, we can figure something out.” 

“I suppose we could always try to hitch onto the back of that giant living gargoyle,” Ed muses, sounding entirely too intrigued for Oswald’s liking. 

“Honestly, Edward,” Oswald snaps, rolling his eyes, “don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m _not_ being ridiculous. _I_ ,” Ed replies, elongating the syllable in his mouth, “am just pointing out the limitations of your proposed plan.” 

“Yes, because, lest we forget, _every_ plan executed by the great Edward Nygma is nothing short of _flawless_.”

“You said it,” Ed quips, “I didn’t.”

They’re _squabbling_ , and Ed is grinning like the absolute bastard he is. 

“Why are you _smiling_?!” Oswald demands, petulant and mildly bewildered.

“I’m sorry,” Ed says, not sounding sorry at all, “I didn’t realize I was.”

“You still are,” Oswald points out, jabbing an accusatory finger at Ed’s face.

“Sorry,” Ed repeats, smile never wavering, “I suppose I just...missed you.” 

“You...you missed _arguing_ with me?” Oswald asks, incredulous.

“I guess so,” Ed replies.

He looks almost coy as he bites his lip, giggling, that damn smile still stretching at the corners of his mouth. 

Oswald can feel his own lips twitching, a matching grin threatening to bloom over his face.

“See,” Ed smirks as he leans in too close, prodding at the corner of Oswald’s lips with one gloved finger, “now you’re doing it too.”

“Shush,” Oswald chastises, but he knows it’s undercut by the fond smile that finally creeps over his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any comments, keyboard smashing, and flailing is encouraged and cherished! <3 I always look forward to what you guys thought.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, Ed hotwires a car. 

It is _his_ area, now, he supposes, after the sub. Edward Nygma, head of criminal transportation.

"We're already fugitives who have escaped from police custody, Ozzie," Ed had said, flashing him a sharp grin, "what's a little vehicular larceny going to hurt?"

The nickname, foreign in his mouth, had rolled off his tongue without him even thinking about it. 

Still, it felt...right, somehow. New, but undercut with a familiar, long-standing affection. Much like the two men themselves, transformed over time and distance but still very much the same at their cores. 

If Oswald had noticed it, he hadn’t commented, merely nodding his assent before quickly moving to help Ed jimmy open the Buick’s driver side door. 

The sound of the engine hums as they roll down the dark streets, the radio murmuring, low and steady, in the background little more than white noise. The vibrations through the steering wheel are a comfort beneath Ed’s hands. Power and the knowledge they could go anywhere, if they wanted to, thrums inside him, even as he knows they won’t stray far. 

Ed keeps the windows rolled down. A fool’s endeavor, given the inevitable bite of the cold Gotham night, but the compulsion to feel everything the evening has to offer is far too powerful to bow to the weather. He savors it all—the wind in his hair, the icy briskness on his cheek, the briny smell of harbor mixed with acrid notes of thick smog permeating the air

He had grown to hate that smell, in the years leading up to his second stint in the asylum. Used to dream of fresh air and clear sunsets, wake up aching for sunny, far off horizons.

Now he can’t imagine a scent more sweet, has to forcibly stop himself from sucking down lungfuls of it with every breath. Anything beats the faint medicinal stench of Arkham, that thin veneer of cleanliness serving as a feeble attempt to cover up the overpowering aroma of excrement and rot. 

He’s managed, thus far, to suppress the urge to stick his head out the window like a dog, if only to avoid the inevitable stare such a move would undoubtedly elicit from Oswald.

He doesn’t manage to keep himself from cackling, however, loud and sudden, the sheer elation of their newfound freedom welling up in his chest and bursting from his mouth. Oswald startles at the sound, giving him a careful, probing look, light eyes sharp as blades. But he says nothing. 

In fact, Oswald is surprisingly quiet in the passenger seat, sinking visibly into the car cushions, his posture loose in a way that betrays his pronounced exhaustion. As Ed had surmised, he’s clearly feeling the weight of everything far more heavily than he’d been willingly to let on. 

Ed had half-expected to field some complaint about the chill or the way the breeze might threaten Oswald’s always carefully sculpted hair, but had received nothing but silence. Instead, Oswald has elected to stare out the window pensively, perhaps soaking in the Gotham skylight with just as much relish as Ed himself. 

Ed can’t resist sneaking constant, furtive glances over at him. 

In the illumination of the passing streetlamps, he studies Oswald’s sharp profile, his pale mismatched eyes, his more pronounced build, catching brief snatches before they are plunged into darkness again and again.

Ed hadn’t lied—Oswald _does_ look good. And he would be deceiving himself if he didn’t admit he’d been bubbling with anticipation for their reunion all day, ever since he’d received “Oswald’s” letter in the early morning hours. 

There was nothing quite like ten years in an insane asylum to force a person to think. At least, as much as one could, through the haze of the thorazine drip they often kept him on to make him placid, docile.

Ed thought about all kinds of things. About what he would do, if he ever got out of that hell hole. About what he wished he _had_ done. About the things he'd do differently, a second time around. 

About his relationships, shattered and broken though they might be. 

His parents, may they burn in hell. 

His former GCPD colleagues, not far behind good ole mom and dad. 

The list of names that made up his winding, broken love life. 

Kristen. Isabella. Lee.

... _Oswald_.

He thought about Oswald _a lot_. To an almost alarming degree, if the notes he’d stolen from Dr. Quinzel were anything to go by.

It had been easy enough to surmise, with all that time on his hands, just why it was that when his thoughts wandered, they always came back to Oswald. A revelation that had been on the tip of his tongue throughout the entirety of the six months leading up to their incarceration. 

Earlier, even, a truth Ed kept just out of reach during the long, labored months he’d spent working on the sub. Their escape, a bright spark of hope resting far on the horizon.

_Later_. There would always be later. 

...until there wasn’t. And he was left with nothing but ten years of solace, unvoiced feelings, and regrets to sift through, the curious sting of wondering what might have been a constant companion.

Ten years without Oswald. So many things that had seemed so important became utterly pedantic, facing down those intervening years alone. 

In the end, admitting to himself that he was in love with Oswald was easy, once there was nothing he could do about it.

“Wait a second! Listen!” Oswald snaps suddenly, the man himself drawing Ed out of his reverie with one flailing hand.

“What?” Ed barks, startled.

He has to flick his wrist sharply, jerking the car to course correct from where he’d veered at the sound. 

“Shh!” Oswald shushes him, a sharp whistle of air through his teeth.

As though they _hadn’t_ just been sitting in utter silence until _Oswald_ had kicked up a ruckus. 

Ed bristles, shooting Oswald a resentful glare, but bites his lip to refrain from saying exactly that. 

Instead, he watches as Oswald reaches forward swiftly without looking at him, turning up the volume of the local news station Ed had switched to as soon as he’d started the car.

“Escaped Arkham Asylum inmate Jeremiah Valeska has been apprehended on suspicions in the attempted Wayne Tower gala bombing earlier this evening,” the anchor drones. “Potential accomplice and fellow escapee Edward ‘The Riddler’ Nygma remains at large. Nygma was last seen escaping custody with his long-time associate, former criminal kingpin Oswald ‘the Penguin’ Cobblepot, who was released from Blackgate Prison earlier today after serving a ten year long sentence. If sighted, please proceed with caution, and contact the Gotham City Police Department at once. Both men are presumed armed and extremely dangerous. I’m your host Vicki Vale, and we’ll be keeping you updated on the situation here at WZPZ as more information becomes available.” 

“Vicki?” Ed wrinkles his nose in confusion, his brain catching on the incongruous tidbit of information. “...wasn’t her name _Valerie_?” 

“Why did you think it was me?” Oswald asks, ignoring Ed’s query entirely to interject one of his own. “That orchestrated the attack on Wayne Tower?”

Ed swallows, a flush of embarrassed heat creeping up his neck.

“He planted a letter,” he explains carefully, “from...you.”

“Valeska forged my penmanship?” Oswald demands, sounding oddly affronted at the prospect. 

A startled, anxious laugh issues from Ed’s lips. 

“No,” he admits, shaking his head even though he doubts Oswald sees it, “no, the letter was...typed.”

“And you _fell_ for that?” Oswald demands, the incredulous tone in his voice raises Ed’s hackles immediately.

He puffs up his chest, opening his mouth to defend himself. 

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Oswald says, cutting him off before he has the chance. 

Ed blows out an audible breath, his rigid stance deflating at Oswald’s words.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he admits, reaching up to rub at his temple with one hand. "The drugs made it...difficult. To think."

An understatement, to say the least. At his lowest, it had been nigh _impossible_.

He had taken to scribbling question marks and riddles across every blank, white space on his uniform, back when they allowed him something to write with. A canvas for his thoughts, serving as an anchor, so he wouldn't lose them from one drug-induced haze to another.

_Male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet_ , was scrawled at the hem of his shirt, just above his waist. 

He'd reach down and rub the phrase between his fingers on bad days, on good days. It was grounding, even on those worst drug-addled days, when Ed wasn't entirely sure what it meant beyond the comfort tracing over the words gave him.

_Penguin_ , he'd whisper again and again in his mind, _penguin_.

“Besides,” he adds, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts and refocus, “I was just so _relieved_ to hear from you again!” 

He barrels on, ignoring the glimpse of Oswald’s puzzled frown the streetlight offers.

“I suppose I let my…” he winces, pained and almost disdainful as he forces the word to roll off his tongue, “ _emotions_ get the best of me.”

“That doesn’t sound much like you either,” Oswald says gently.

The patience in his tone makes Ed still, a pulse of anger, hot and white, rippling through him.

“You stopped writing!” he snaps darkly, voice dropping an octave, low and frustrated.

There’s a pointed silence in the wake of the accusation. Ed glances over briefly to find Oswald’s jaw ajar, gaping up at him openly.

“I didn’t stop writing!” he squawks, affronted as he jabs a finger against Ed’s chest. “ _You_ stopped answering!”

“ _After_ they took away my writing and reading privileges,” Ed corrects, gripping the steering wheel tight in his fist. The sound of his leather gloves scraping against vinyl is sharp in the air. “But _you_ stopped writing long before then. That’s _part_ of the reason I lost my privileges in the first place!” 

Ed finds himself practically panting when he’s finished, the force of his rage having winded him. Out of his peripherals, he sees Oswald’s mouth go slack in reply, whatever retort he had dying on his lips. He looks absolutely gobsmacked, as though Ed’s words had physically struck him across the face.

Ed’s shoulders shift uncomfortably, Oswald’s shocked gaze searing on the side of his face.

“I didn’t exactly...take it well,” he confesses softly, eyes trained steadily on the road.

His heartbeat ratchets up with the confession, anxiety spiking in his veins. He feels raw, like an exposed nerve ending. 

It’s an all-too familiar feeling, these days.

He barely manages not to startle when he feels a glove hand touching his wrist delicately, strong fingers wrapping around his arm in a gentle hold.

“Edward,” Oswald says sincerely, the movement of his arm indicating he has placed a hand over his chest, “I swear to you, I did not stop writing. Your letters were one of the few highlights of my imprisonment. I wouldn’t have cut off that correspondence, not for anything.”

Ed’s eyes find Oswald’s for an instant, and he sees the truth of the words written on his face. 

His lips upturn in a weak smile, nodding once in confirmation. Oswald nods in return, his own smile dancing around the corners of his mouth, and something flutters in Ed’s chest when his grip tightens around his forearm, giving Ed’s wrist a reassuring squeeze. 

Ed turns back to the road once more, letting out a contented little hum low in his throat, the pressure of Oswald’s hand a steady comfort.

But then revelation pours over him, like an icy bucket of water, shattering the moment as he gasps aloud.

“That _clown_ set me up!” he growls, smacking his palms hard against the steering wheel, his teeth clenching together in outrage.

Something inside him cracks open, and he has to bite his lip to stifle the wounded sound that threatens to spill from his throat. All those months, _more than a year_ , spent thinking Oswald had cut off contact with him, that he’d done something to destroy their connection once and for all.

Nights spent pouring over Oswald’s letters. At first to try and locate the moment everything had shifted, the clues that would help him understand why Oswald had decided to dissolve their friendship. Later, to try and ring out any last bit of solace the familiar words, calling up Oswald’s voice so vividly, could offer.

And it had all been a lie, a fabrication by that comatose circus freak. 

“But how on Earth would he have even _known_ about our letters to begin intercepting them in the first place?” Oswald demands, clearly at a loss. 

Ed hunches his shoulders forward slightly, shame curling in his stomach.

“I may have...talked about you in Arkham,” Ed admits, voice pained, “somewhat...extensively.”

“Edward!” Oswald scolds before the sentence has even fully left his mouth.

“ _Mostly_ to Valeska!” Ed crows defensively. “He was a vegetable! How was I supposed to know he was playing dead for _ten years_?!”

Ed catches Oswald’s full-body shudder at the mere thought. It _is_ a horrifying realization, the kind of control Valeska would need to pull off such a ruse. 

A formidable foe indeed, and definitely a concern to be revisited in the future. 

“I thought it was _you_ that had broken me out.”

Ed registers the words, the sound of his voice cracking almost imperceptibly in the middle, before he even fully registers _he’s_ the one speaking. It’s as if the sentence had risen fully formed from his lips of its own accord.

_Too needy_ , his inner voice chides sternly from somewhere in the back of his mind. _You’re being too much. No one likes it when you’re_ too _much_.

Ed grits his teeth, focusing on his own breathing to drown out the sound of the reprimand.

“Oh, Eddie,” Oswald sighs, his apologetic tone snapping Ed out of his internal tirade. 

He feels a rush of warmth in his chest at Oswald’s own use of the rarely utilized nickname. 

“I would have never left you there,” he goes on, a painful sincerity in the words that makes Ed’s heart clench. “I promise you that. I just thought it best to try and take care of our little _Gordon_ problem before attempting it.”

His voice goes dark, anger boiling just below the surface, on the good commissioner’s name. 

“You went after Jimbo?” Ed asks, eyes cutting quickly to Oswald, his spirits lifting even higher at the prospect.

“Unsuccessfully, I’m afraid,” Oswald replies, letting out a frustrated huff. “I took him out to the dock where he refused to shoot me, all those years ago, when we first met. I thought perhaps it would be... _poetic_. But the slippery bastard got away.”

Ed tactfully doesn’t mention their _own_ sordid history at that pier. He does, however, find himself grinding his teeth a little as he pictures Oswald taking ole Jimmy there, something _worryingly_ like jealousy sparking in his gut. 

“He is a wiley one,” Ed forces himself to hum in sympathy, tamping down the mental image, “but! That solves the mystery of how he knew you hadn’t been the one to orchestrate my escape, at least.”

“And you once said _I_ was a cockroach,” Oswald huffs, folding his arms across his chest.

He trains his gaze moodily ahead at the darkened Gotham streets, wearing a dismissive sneer so petulant it could _almost_ be classified as a pout. Amusement and affection bubble up in Ed’s chest, the entire display striking him as strangely...endearing. 

His own anger burns brightly too, of course, but he feels almost... _giddy_ , at the prospect of getting to orchestrate the city’s comeuppance by Oswald’s side. He isn’t sure whether the near decade apart is to blame for his sudden wave of sentimentality.

Ed clucks his tongue in commiseration as Oswald continues stewing, reaching over and taking his hand without thinking.

“We’ll have our revenge yet,” he vows, threading their fingers together before he gestures out at the shimmering city with their interlocked hands. “Against Gordon, Bullock, the GCPD, all of them! We’ll make everyone who ever wronged us pay for what they’ve done.”

He turns his head briefly to grin at Oswald in affirmation, only to find him staring, eyes wide, at their interlaced fingers.

It’s only then that Ed fully registers what he’s done, the invisible barrier between them he’s oh-so gleefully bowled right over.

He should drop Oswald’s hand, he knows that. Release Oswald from his grasp, clear his throat, and act like nothing happened. 

But the intervening time has turned Ed's longing raw and desperate, and Oswald’s palm is solid and warm against his, a firm reminder that he’s here. He’s real. More than just the hallucinations that had sometimes crept into the edges of Ed’s dreams during long Arkham nights.

Ed’s time at the asylum sharpened his edges. Made him brittle, his skin too thin, his feelings far too close to the surface. He _can_ hear himself. His laugh too loud and manic. His voice too giddy and grating. 

Too jumpy. Too overeager. Too much.

Like some tiny glimmer shining through of who he’d been _before_ , when Oswald first met him. Before the Riddler, before _everything_. 

But he doesn’t think he can stop. And, what’s more, he isn’t sure he _wants_ to.

Ed tightens his grip on Oswald’s fingers, catching Oswald’s gaze as he rubs his thumb over the back of his hand. He wishes, sudden and aching, that the layers of gloves weren’t separating their skin.

Even in the dim light, Ed can see it. The look Oswald shoots him now, the one he reserved only for Ed, startled but soft. The warm, hopeful glow in his eyes that betrays the shy twist of his mouth. It’s a look Ed hasn't been on the receiving end of in a very, very, long time, not fully since their days as mayor and chief of staff, gone before Ed wised up enough to appreciate it. 

He'd like to drown in those fond, too pale eyes now, be buried in the tentative upturn of Oswald’s lips. Bottle up that look forever and wear it in a vial around his neck, so he can never lose it again. Never forget. 

Ed tugs Oswald’s arm up to his lips, pressing a kiss to the pulse point at the inside of his wrist, the only sliver of skin available.

Then, he finally loosens his grip on Oswald’s hand, and lets it go. 

Oswald’s eyes have gone half-lidded in the interim, shock and awe frozen on his face as he blinks up at Ed. He’s utterly flabbergasted, it seems, for the second time in only a handful of minutes.

“Yes,” he says eventually, licking his lips as he breaks the silence, “well.”

He clears his throat, gaze dropping down to where his hands are clasped tightly in his lap. 

The bout of bashfulness makes the corner of Ed’s mouth twitch. He drums his fingers against his chin as though in thought, a poor attempt to hide his half-smile. 

“Right you are, my friend,” Oswald finally declares once he has fully recovered his faculties, jovial in a way Ed recognizes is forced. 

He stabs a finger through the air, echoing Ed’s words, seemingly just to have something to say.

“We will get Gordon!” he repeats with conviction. “We will get them all, and have our vengeance at long last! On that, you have my word.”

And then he turns abruptly towards the window, angling his body away from Ed as he ostensibly stares out at the shadowy alleyways and derelict warehouses once more. 

The air inside the car bristles, tense and electric. Even so, Ed feels a calmness settle over his shoulders. A steady, reassuring certainty that warms his chest. 

And as he pulls onto Mooney Bridge, heading for the outskirts of Gotham where the Van Dahl mansion waits, it feels suspiciously like heading home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any comments, keyboard smashing, and flailing is encouraged and cherished! <3 I always look forward to what you guys thought.


	3. Chapter 3

As they step through the door into the entryway, Oswald feels his entire body sag in relief. 

_Home_ , his bones practically hum with contentment. _Home_. _Home_. _Home_.

"Home again, home again," Oswald murmurs softly, an echo of the mantra reverberating in his ribcage.

Making his way into the foyer, he drinks in the familiar scene unfurling before him. The checkered monochrome floors. The entryway mantle and its accompanying antique mirror. The glowing chandelier. Everything in its proper place, just as he remembers from before his incarceration.

He reaches out to run an idle hand over the staircase bannister. In spite of the musky smell that has settled after ten long, empty years, not a trace of dust raises under his fingertips. The mansion has been meticulously, dutifully restored under Olga’s care. 

Tears pool traitorously in his eyes at the sight, his father’s resplendent manor beckoning him like a long-lost relative, here to welcome him back into the fold of Gotham life.

Brusque though their relationship had always been, he owes his housekeeper diamonds after this.

He turns at the brush of a hand against his shoulder to find Ed smiling down at him. The dim light of the chandelier glints off those ridiculous green glasses of his, their bag of Chinese takeout bulging where he still has tucked it under one arm. 

They’d stopped on the way, at a little place clustered in one of the shopping plazas not far from Van Dahl manor. Not as good as it would have been if they'd gone to their local favorite in the city proper, but Oswald somehow doubted, after all this time, their palettes were refined enough to protest. Besides, he and Ed had frequented the establishment on late nights at home during his mayoral days, so, loath as he was to admit it, the little hole-in-the-wall held a certain nostalgic charm for him. 

Oswald had even had cash in his pocket, so they thankfully didn't have to hold the teller at gunpoint.

Warm leather scrapes gently against his cheek, and Oswald blinks, startling out of his reverie, as he realizes Ed is carefully wiping the dampness from his face. 

“Resources being what they are, I’m afraid I don’t have a handkerchief on me,” Edward murmurs, his steady smile unwavering.

“That’s...quite alright,” Oswald replies jerkily, grinding his teeth at the gravelly sound of his voice, heavy with emotion. 

Ed finishes his machinations with an idle stroke of his thumb over the jut of Oswald’s chin. Then he turns abruptly and heads into the dining area, Oswald trailing in his wake. 

He surprises Oswald by bypassing the dinner table entirely, coat swishing behind him as he confidently strides into the sitting room waiting beyond. Ed deposits the bag of takeout onto the ottoman and approaches the fireplace, looking to bring some light and warmth into the room. 

As Ed feeds logs into the firebox, Oswald settles onto the soft sofa cushions with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes briefly as he revels in this first brief moment of respite. He can hear Ed muttering to himself lowly as he rustles around, the white noise lulling him into contented drowsiness. His guard is down in a way it hasn’t been in years, cloaking him in the sudden, unfamiliar feeling of safety and security.

At the sound of a match being struck, he straightens, leaning forward to begin unpacking the brown paper sack. He pulls out the assortment of cartons—crab rangoon, spare ribs, lo mein, their respective orders of Mongolian beef and General Tso’s chicken—and arranges them neatly across the stool. 

“Ta-da!” Ed crows triumphantly once the kindling ignites, casting the room in a soft, ambient glow. 

He turns on his heel, practically a twirl, and bounds back to the couch. As he plops down beside Oswald, the old cushions give a slight _puff_ of strain at the sudden addition of his weight. 

Oswald hands him chopsticks, taking a moment to admire the way the fire backlights Ed’s slightly disheveled hair, the outline of his glasses. His gaze drops momentarily downward, feeling a spike of self-consciousness as he takes in the way his too tight clothing emphasizes every extra pound he’s put on in the intervening years. 

"I only had my clothes from when I was incarcerated," he hears himself say, embarrassed as he gestures down to his ill-fitting suit, "I see you were much the same."

Ed reaches forward and wordlessly unclasps the chain across Oswald's middle with deft fingers. Oswald can't stop the soft gasp of relief that escapes him at finally being released from the confinements of the too tight jacket.

"I meant what I said, Oswald," Ed says, the soft, warm look he gives Oswald enough to make his breath hitch, "you look... _incredibly_ good."

"Please don't tease an old man with false flattery, Ed," Oswald warns, his voice trembling on the words.

“I wouldn’t,” Ed murmurs, close enough his breath brushes against Oswald’s cheek, the ghost of a kiss. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Buoyed by a fickle combination of bravery and cowardice, Oswald reaches out and taps Ed’s spectacles playfully.

“These are a new addition,” he observes in answer to Ed’s befuddled look. “Can you even see?” 

“I can see just fine, thank you very much,” Ed quips in return, the line between his brows vanishing, “fashion _and_ function.” 

“Oh, well, thank the heavens for that,” Oswald responds with a fond roll of his eyes. 

Clearly taking Oswald’s gesture as an invitation, Ed lifts his hand to settle gently against the side of Oswald’s face. His fingers trail upward, tracing around the edge of Oswald’s monocle. 

Oswald swallows hard, throat suddenly bone dry. He fights every instinct within himself not to duck away from the intensity of Ed’s gaze, recoil at the heat of his touch. 

Ed had fashioned the monocle in the sixth months post-reunification. The glass is shatter-proof, impervious to bullets and shrapnel. Although unspoken, the significance was clear. An effort, on Ed’s part, to ensure history wouldn't repeat itself. A belated attempt, for reasons Oswald could hardly ascertain, to protect his ruined eye as though it was precious. 

Even so, though futile, it was a shockingly tender gesture, one that had left Oswald privately choked up at the time. 

"I did forget how good this looks on you," Ed muses, tilting his head in consideration. “Distinguished."

"Don't be ridiculous, Ed," Oswald splutters, skin growing hot under the scrutiny.

Ed's dark eyes remain steady on his face, the silence around them thick enough to swallow Oswald whole.

"I wasn't aware I was being," he says seriously, fingertips still pressed against the delicate skin around the edge of the glass.

Hope, like butterfly wings, flutters in Oswald’s chest. After so many years, the sensation feels foreign. 

The somber expression on Ed’s face melts, his lips quirking up in the beginnings of a smile. 

"This, too," he adds, flicking the brim of Oswald's top hat. 

Like the monocle, that adjustment to Oswald’s wardrobe had been implemented by Ed himself, who suggested with the addition of the monocle, he might as well lean into the Lord of the Manor image full tilt. 

"You know," Ed adds apropos of nothing, chewing his lips in contemplation, "I imagined you in a top hat, once."

Oswald furrows his brow at the confession, curious that Ed hadn’t mentioned it when he suggested the addition. He’s been long privy to Ed’s hallucinations, as far back as their chats during Ed’s first stint in Arkham, when he shared with Oswald a detailed account of his personal struggles.

“When was this?” he asks, suspecting Ed might have experienced a relapse during their incarceration, his cooped-up mind desperate for a friendly face.

A dark shadow crosses Ed’s face at the question.

“When you were dead.” 

The answer rises, clipped, from his lips. His voice, blunt and deep, reverberates off the walls of the sitting room, echoing like a catacomb. 

“You hallucinated me when I was _dead_?!” Oswald demands, the hairs on the back of his neck raising.

Dual waves of disbelief and ferocity war in his gut, the churning swirl of a storm. 

Ed’s eyes unfocus, trained at some indistinct point over Oswald’s shoulder.

“Yes,” he answers, almost mechanically, “I missed you.”

And just like that, the pressure recedes, the waters calm, and Oswald feels the fight drain out of his body.

He slides his hand forward slowly, with the cautiousness one might use to approach a wild animal. As he clasps his hand around Ed’s arm, he takes it as a good sign that Ed doesn’t recoil from his touch. 

“And what exactly was I...doing?” he asks quietly, the inquiry bubbling up for lack of anything better to say. 

As he speaks, he rubs circles on the inside of Ed’s wrist, over his pulse point. An attempt, however feeble, to try and ground him. 

“You sang to me,” Ed says, his defensive stance falling away. “It was...diverting.”

The latter statement is spoken in lulled tones, dreamy and faraway, as though he’s momentarily forgotten Oswald is in the room. 

Then, suddenly, his eyes fall on Oswald’s face, lighting up with frantic desperation. He surges forward, hands latching onto Oswald’s shoulders, fingers digging hard into his flesh. 

It’s a move that would intimidate a lesser man. But he is Oswald Cobblepot, and staring up into the wild-eyed face of his best friend, the man who once shot him in the stomach and shoved him off a dock, he feels no fear. 

“I didn’t want to lose you,” Ed insists, rough and imploring, “not again.” 

“Ed,” Oswald murmurs, soothing as he squeezes his forearm, “I’m right here.” 

Ed releases him at the words, as though he’s just remembered himself. He retreats slightly but doesn’t go far, settling one hand on the lapels of Oswald’s coat, twisting his fingers in the glittering fabric. 

An affirmation, Oswald suspects, of the physical reality of him. The reminder Oswald had been offering, to pull Ed out of the fog. His solidness a vow that he will not disappear like the wispy smoke of a hallucination gotten out of hand. 

Ed’s drawn expression, concentrated and severe, suddenly clears.

“You are, aren’t you?” he asks, almost reverent as he seeks confirmation. “You really are _here_.”

“I am, my friend,” Oswald reassures him, hand trailing down to clutch Ed’s fingers. “And you’re here with me. We’re together. This is real. I promise you that.”

Relief rushes through him when he feels Ed squeeze back faintly. 

Ed leans away slightly then, putting a little more space between them. He lets go of his tight grip on Oswald’s jacket, lifting his free hand to rub at his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Oswald,” he says, face still partially covered, voice subdued.

Oswald waves a dismissive hand through the air, in spite of the fact he doubts Ed sees it. 

“Ed,” he tangles their fingers together more tightly, “there’s no need to apologize.” 

Ed takes a steadying breath, then looks up to shoot Oswald a weak smile. Oswald returns it tenfold.

"My emotional controls are somewhat...compromised," he confesses, sounding sheepish. "I'm sure they'll be back, once we've been on the outside for a while."

Oswald suspects it would be impertinent, given the recent outburst, to tell Ed he hopes they won’t. Or, at the very least, that he hopes Ed will continue to be more liberal with expressions of his amorous emotions than before.

Suppressing the urge, Oswald clears his throat, gesturing to the spread before them.

“In the meantime, we should eat,” he reminds Ed gently. “Our food is getting cold.”

“Oh!” Ed startles, releasing Oswald’s hand as he lunges for a carton with childish eagerness. “Of course.” 

Oswald flexes his fingers, ignoring the twinge he feels at the sudden loss of contact. Instead, he lifts his own carton, extending his chopsticks out towards Ed. Ed mirrors him, raising his own.

“Bon appétit, my friend.” 

“Bon appétit,” Ed repeats.

They clank their chopsticks together, their own facsimile of a toast. 

At his first savory bite, Oswald releases a low, rumbling moan of satisfaction. After ten years of prison meals, five-star cuisine at the Ocelot wouldn’t taste as fine. 

He doesn’t even bother not to wolf down his entrée. Ed knows him, _has_ known him since before his elevated social standing meant he was expected to take a far more refined approach at meal times. He’s seen him scarving down sardines and spicy mustard on toast, so his expectations for Oswald’s table manners are significantly lower than others. 

Oswald is surprised, however, to find Ed himself doing much the same. The last time he had seen him, Ed had been a slow, fairly finicky eater. Even during No Man’s Land, when rations had been scarce, Ed often ate on-the-go, constantly fussing with some sub part or blueprint. More often than not Oswald had to coax him to sit down and have a meal, or remind him to eat when he became too wrapped up in his work and forgot entirely.

No doubt feeling Oswald’s gaze as he studies him, Ed looks up from where he’s shoveling his chunks of Tso’s chicken into his mouth. In answer to Oswald’s astonished look, he gives him a casual shrug and a toothy grin.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he explains. “Not in Arkham.” 

Oswald nods in acquiesce, his own earlier stays in the asylum coming back to him in flashes. The only time he can ever remember having anything resembling a luxury food item, it had been to test the limits of his docile behavior and proof the effectiveness of his brainwashing.

The words have barely left his lips before Ed takes a large bite of lo mein. His face instantly contorts, lips pursed, nose screwed up in disgust. After an exaggerated, half-choked swallow, he begins meticulously picking the onions out of his food with his chopsticks, depositing them in the carton clutched in Oswald’s hand. 

The familiarity of it warms Oswald to his core. After ten years, he had worried they might have altered so much as to be all but unrecognizable to one another, any common ground between them lost to the sands of time. But here they are, a decade older and a little worse for wear, but still, underneath it all, the same people they've always been. Oswald takes comfort in the thought.

“‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ hmm?” Oswald parrots, teasing in spite of his own pleasure at Ed retaining his recognizable tics.

“Well,” Ed amends, arcing his chopsticks through the air to encompass them both, “some habitsdie hard, I guess.”

Oswald lets out a slight squawk of protest.

“And what habit, pray tell, am I _apparently_ clinging onto?”

“You. Me. Fireplace, Chinese takeout?” Ed releases a small, knowing chuckle. “It’s like a collection of our greatest hits.”

Oswald feels a prickle of anticipation at the observation.

“I suppose it is,” he allows, keeping his expression neutral and his voice coy.

He watches curiously as Ed balances his open carton carefully on one edge of the ottoman, trying to ignore the way his pulse accelerates. Ed pulls the greasy paper bag into his lap, slowly peeling the receipt off the side. 

His fingers move quickly in the low firelight, the thin paper audibly crinkling with the swiftness of his motions. 

“There,” he says finally, delicately placing the snow white origami at the center of the footrest, “ _now_ the stroll down memory lane truly is complete.” 

"If I didn't know any better," Oswald replies, breathless, eyes prickling with unshed tears as he stares down at the little paper penguin, "I might accuse you of being sentimental."

"In that, I suspect you might be the first."

Ed tilts his head slightly to one side, bird-like in his own consideration of their featherless friend.

“Maybe it’s my age showing,” he concedes. “I admit, I had little else for comfort in Arkham aside from good memories."

"And...those were good memories?" Oswald asks hesitantly.

"Oswald," Ed says, turning to him, conviction in his voice, "the ones with you were some of the best."

Oswald feels a flush rise on his cheeks, the lump in his throat making it difficult to swallow. 

"As were mine with you, old friend," he admits, brushing his fingers tentatively over Ed’s knuckles, "as were mine with you."

As they stare at each other in the warm firelight, his fingers feather-light over the back of Ed’s hand, he feels that spark of anticipation creeping up his spine again. Some traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispers that, maybe, this is the moment. Maybe he can turn back time right then and there, lean forward, and capture Ed’s lips in a soft, hungry kiss. This time, follow through, like he’d wanted to that night all those years ago, when they were young and everything was fresh and new. 

Ed flips his hand over, palm up, fingers pressed against Oswald’s own. His eyes look almost black in the low lighting, dark and intoxicating. Oswald thinks he even sees Ed lean ever-so slightly forward, a trick of the light bringing his body closer from one moment to the next. 

So, of course, his bravado leaves him at the last moment. His gaze darts skittishly away from Ed’s, those warm eyes full of unspoken promises Oswald fears are just his own desires reflected back at him, wishful thinking made manifest. 

As he studies the room—the desk in the corner that once served as Ed’s office space, the large window where he’d once stuttered and failed to confess—he feels Ed’s hand withdraw, the room seeming to take on a sudden chill at the loss of his touch. 

It’s Ed’s turn to clear his throat, the awkwardness that now blankets the room palpable. Oswald risks a look at him to see Ed pick up his lo mein, beginning to quietly eat once more. He fails, however, to resume depositing the clumps of onion into the container still clutched limply in Oswald’s hand, instead shoving them to one side of his own carton. 

“Why on Earth would a man dress up like a gigantic bat, anyway?” Oswald hears himself babble nervously.

It’s a habit he’d picked up, during the months building the sub and after. Rattling off the first thought that came into his mind any time a moment grew tense, fear of the potential fallout animating his lips almost without his permission. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds painfully high and shrill, his desperation for something, anything, to break the icy silence that stretches between them transparent in the screech of his words. 

Ed snorts, glancing up to shoot a pointed glance back-and-forth between the two of them, the way they’re currently outfitted. 

“Given my penchant for question marks and your own arctic fowl epithet...are we really ones to talk?” he asks dryly, one eyebrow creeping towards his hairline.

“No,” Oswald admits, deflating slightly, “I suppose not.”

Legs crossed at the knee, Ed leans forward slightly, tapping a light rhythm against his chin in thought. 

“Although...perhaps it _wasn’t_ a costume,” he muses, the wheels of his mind visibly turning. 

“Oh? And what’s your alternative working theory?” Oswald asks, lifting a chunk of onion to his lips.

“One of Hugo Strange’s escaped failed experiments?” Ed suggests, sounding far too cheerful for Oswald’s liking. He carries on, clearly warming to the idea. “Or! A mad scientist whose bat sonar serum has gone horrifically awry, leading him to accidentally transform himself into a giant mutant werebat?” 

Oswald purses his lips and wrinkles his nose, not bothering to hide the skeptical horror such a thought evokes in him. 

“What?” Ed asks, mouth lifting in an amused half smile. “It’s Gotham. Stranger things _have_ happened.”

“Perish the thought,” Oswald shudders, disgust rippling through his words.

“It is a puzzle in need of solving,” Ed continues, enraptured in a way that sets off very faint alarm bells in the back of Oswald’s head. 

A concern for another time. 

“Something for us to tackle together, starting tomorrow,” Ed muses, reclining back into the sofa cushions. 

At Oswald’s pointed silence, a frown mars his face.

“That is what we agreed to earlier this evening, isn’t it?” he inquires, the forcefulness in his tone seeming to brook no arguments. “To take on our little bat infestation together?”

“Yes,” Oswald nods quickly in assent, “yes, yes, of course.” 

The rigid line of Ed’s shoulders seems to relax marginally with his agreement. 

“Good, that’s...good. That we’re on the same page, I mean,” Ed adds, sweeping a hand through the air as though the matter was trivial at best. 

“I agree,” Oswald murmurs, scraping up one last small bite to cover the pleased tilt of his lips.

He drops his empty carton beside the penguin centerpiece, settling back on the chaise with a long, sated groan. Resting his hands over his stomach, he can’t help but feel a deep-seated lethargy settling over him. His eyes drop momentarily shut, that same ease that had swept over him earlier briefly settling back into his bones. After so long on edge, that deep-seated feeling of calm is so foreign, it's almost overwhelming to experience it twice in one evening. 

When he blinks back out of his haze, Oswald catches Ed staring openly at him. There’s something hungry in that look, like Ed could swallow him whole. 

A flush instantly rises to his cheeks at the thought. 

“What is it?” he asks a bit too sharply, hand automatically coming up to self-consciously touch his face. 

“You’ve got a little something—” 

It’s the only warning Oswald gets before Ed reaches forward, swiping his thumb over the corner of Oswald’s lips. 

Then, to Oswald’s utter astonishment, Ed pops the digit into his mouth, noisily sucking the morsel off the tip of his thumb. 

“Edward!” Oswald squawks, scandalized. 

Ed peers up at him through his lashes, hand still pressed against his lips as he gives Oswald an unbothered shrug.

“‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’” he repeats, brown eyes sparkling.

“I didn’t realize Arkham had turned you into an _animal_ ,” Oswald scoffs, still playing at being affronted. 

“Doesn’t it always?” Ed asks, voice a touch too brittle from the painful truth in his words. 

The air around them turns pensive as they both fall silent, their respective experiences in Arkham draping over them like a curtain. There had been nights in this very house, not long after Ed’s release into Oswald’s custody, that they would crawl into each other’s beds seeking solace, their shared company the only escape from the nightmares that plagued them both. The closeness had felt natural after sharing the tiny bed in Ed’s studio apartment, an intimacy Oswald was loath to let go in the wake of losing both his parents. Things between them had felt so easy then, before the first flush of Oswald’s true feelings had become apparent to him, before the cycles of pain and betrayal and distrust that were only just beginning to end prior to their respective incarcerations. 

Oswald wishes he could crawl back there sometimes, to softly murmured good nights and the steady heat of his best friend’s body warm and reassuring against his in the dark. He had foolishly squandered those moments at the time, recognizing how precious such exchanges truly were only after they were long gone. 

“What are your plans? Now that we’re out,” Ed asks nonchalantly.

Oswald realizes belatedly that Ed is extending a glass towards him, having at some point during the lull in conversation poured Oswald a finger of scotch. He’s surprised to see Ed clutching a tumbler for himself, his former partner in crime having always been a bit of a lightweight when it came to his liquor. However, he reaches out and takes his own gratefully, all too relieved to have the conversation steered back to the far safer shores of shop talk. 

“Well, believe it or not, in spite of the deplorable conditions, being cooped up in Blackgate wasn’t _all_ for naught,” he starts, swirling the amber-colored liquor around the crystal with one hand. “There was a sizable market for moving contraband as well as plenty of opportunities to make fruitful alliances with reach both inside _and_ outside the prison walls.” 

When Oswald glances up, he finds Ed has scooted slightly closer, chin in one hand, seemingly riveted at Oswald’s every word. 

“You always were resourceful, Oswald,” he says, a faint gleam in his eye that seems almost...smug, for reasons Oswald can’t possibly fathom. “Leave it to you to turn _prison_ into an opportunity.” 

Unsure whether to feel insulted or flattered, Oswald continues, “I actually managed to accrue a fair number of assets, in addition to the wealth I amassed in the sixth months before we were arrested. I’m looking to implement my plans to reopen the Iceberg Lounge as soon as possible.” 

“Will you reopen in the same location?” Ed inquires, sipping at his glass.

“I suppose I could buy the old club off of Barbara. From what I understand, it’s just sitting there, collecting dust,” Oswald answers thoughtfully. “However, I’ve also had my eye on a few properties in the Diamond District. The details are as of yet to be ironed out, I’m afraid.”

“The Diamond District,” Ed repeats, smiling wide enough to show off all his teeth. “Upscale.”

“Only the finest from here on out, old friend. I’ve wasted enough years in the muck for an entire lifetime.” 

“Oh, but, Oswald, you’ve always been more than happy to play _dirty_ ,” Ed replies, smooth as silk. 

Anxious anticipation pools in Oswald’s stomach at the minefield of double entendres the statement evokes. 

“Actually, it’s funny you should mention that,” Oswald says airily, gesturing to Ed with his glass, “I have plans to go straight.”

He takes a measured sip of his Scotch, cultivating a dramatic pause as he waits for Ed’s reaction. 

A shadow seems to fall across his companion’s whole demeanor, the silence that stretches sharp as a knife. 

“...you can’t be serious,” Ed finally says, deadpan with a dark undercurrent. 

“Oh, but I am,” Oswald counters, resting his drink against his knee, “ _deadly_ serious. I am a changed man, Edward. Reformed, from my time in Blackgate.”

Ed’s eyebrows furrow, like he doesn’t get the joke, and Oswald revels in momentarily having one over on him. 

“...at least, from the outside, I will be,” he at last relents. The relief that breaks over Ed’s entire face is palpable. “I plan to conduct my affairs as I always have done, but under the guise of a respectable businessmen, keeping my more...unsavory practices behind closed doors. It will be the con of the century, the perfect plan to keep the GCPD dogs at bay. Jim Gordon would do well not to even _think_ of putting me behind bars again, or he will rue so much as _heard_ the name Oswald Cobblepot!”

“See,” Ed smirks, teeth gleaming in the firelight, “I knew you had something up your sleeve.” 

“As always, my friend,” Oswald returns his smirk, raising his glass.

Ed happily clinks his own against Oswald’s. 

“Who’s to say? Perhaps I’ll run for mayor again,” Oswald muses, once he’s finished a long swig. 

The statement is half in jest, though he fails to keep the speculative edge out of his voice. 

“You should,” Ed replies, eyes glittering at the thought. “I’d be only more than happy to get rid of the competition for you.”

He clicks his tongue, making a slashing motion across his throat with a single finger.

“Aubrey, that half-witted buffoon?” Oswald scoffs, gesturing dismissively. “He hardly qualifies as _competition_. I trampled him in the last election, and, even in a city like Gotham, I’d do it a second time without so much as a single case of bribery.”

Ed cackles in delighted agreement. 

“What about yourself?” Oswald asks, lifting a single finger towards Ed, hand still firmly wrapped around his tumbler. “What are the Riddler’s grand plans, now that we’ve been released?”

It doesn’t go unnoticed, the way Ed preens at Oswald’s use of his cherished moniker.

“I’m so happy you asked!” Ed babbles, slapping the heels of his hands against his legs. 

Oswald cringes as a splash of his 21 year old single malt sloshes onto Ed’s glittering green trousers, relieved when Ed bends down to place his glass much more securely on the floor at his feet. 

“As we agreed earlier, it’s time people knew _who_ Gotham really belongs to,” he makes a circular motion with his hand, encompassing the both of them, “ _us_. And while you rule this city’s underbelly with an iron fist, my feathered friend, _I_ am planning to make a name for myself center stage.”

“Oh? And how will you do that? Reopen your _Riddle Factory_?” 

“Perhaps,” Ed acknowledges, eyes glazed as his tongue darts out to swipe over his bottom lip. “One option among many. I have big plans to root out the swine of this city and show them that _no one_ is a match for the _Riddler_.”

“Except for me, of course,” Oswald observes, unable to resist, hiding his knowing smirk against a cool edge of crystal. 

Ed jerks his head to look at him, surprise flashing in his eyes. When he catches his expression, however, he shockingly softens.

“Well, there is a reason it’s _our_ city,” he replies, quiet like a promise, and Oswald feels his pulse quicken at the potential implications. 

“Every man, woman, and child will know the name of the Riddler,” Oswald echoes, an affirmation to answer Ed’s unspoken vow, “but, logistically speaking, how will you do it? A series of bank robberies? Revitalize your deadly game show?”

“I was thinking of creating a giant hedge maze. One you’d have to solve to survive,” Ed says, voice distant, and Oswald can’t tell how serious he’s being. “I sketched out a few schematics while in Arkham, though I’m afraid that’s all lost, now.”

Oswald inclines his head in sympathy. 

“Maybe I’ll drop ole Jimbo in it,” Ed adds, shoulder brushing against Oswald’s as he shoots him a conspiratorial smile. “Rid us of our Gordon problem directly.” 

“No less than he deserves,” Oswald agrees with conviction.

He feels a flutter of pleasure in his chest when Ed’s face lights up at the encouragement. Then he purses his lips as a new concern raises itself. 

“And where will you make your headquarters?” he asks cautiously. 

The lines around Ed’s mouth crease as he frowns, the first wrench in his plans, it seems. 

"... I'm not sure," he admits.

"Stay," Oswald says, and then immediately clamps his teeth together, attempting to choke back the desperate edge of neediness in his voice. 

“What I mean to say is...you could stay here,” he corrects, clearing his throat. "Please know that you are more than welcome. To stay.”

Ed gazes at him, eyes dark and inscrutable, and Oswald feels a flush rising to his cheeks.

“Only if you would like to, of course,” he rushes to amend. “At the very least, it’s a place to find your bearings while you get your affairs in order.”

“I—you’re sure?” Ed asks, shoulders hunched slightly inward, hesitant and awkward in a way Oswald hasn’t seen him in years. 

He punctuates his statement by pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and the nervous tic sends Oswald hurtling backwards through time, to an almost identical conversation they’d had when Ed had been released from Arkham fifteen years before. 

_“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, Mr. Peng—Oswald,” he corrected himself before Oswald had the chance to, “but, where will I go?”_

_His voice wavered with the uncertainty._

_“Why, home with me of course, old friend,” Oswald replied excitedly, giving Ed’s wrist an encouraging squeeze. “What sort of a friend would I be if I didn’t return your hospitality from our first meeting? Mi casa es su casa.”_

_Ed’s face had lit up, a mixture of gratitude and awe lining his features, and even before Oswald recognized what emotion lingered behind it, he felt his own chest flutter at the earnest appreciation shining in his friend’s expression._

"Ed,” he says, with all the certainty of days long past, “I would like nothing more."

Ed smiles—a tight, private, close-lipped smile—and Oswald sees him, like two images overlaid one on top of the other. That shy, overeager former forensic scientist who had quickly become the best friend Oswald had ever had is tucked away beneath every new worry line and wrinkle. Hidden, but still here. 

“Thank you, Oswald,” Ed says in the here and now, an almost exact echo of his gratitude all those years ago, “that’s very generous of you.”

“Well, my humble abode is better than Arkham, at least,” Oswald replies too lightly, anxious by the intensity of the moment. “Don’t you agree?”

“Worlds,” Ed answers, flat and dry, “ _anything_ is better than there.”

The boyish twinkle omnipresent in his eye has dimmed. He looks and sounds his age, for once, and Oswald can see the wear of the years on him. The loose hang of his suit betrays his thin, gaunt frame, the shock of silver in his sideburns signalling middle-age. Even the line of his shoulders seems suddenly exhausted.

Oswald desperately misses the childish glint.

“It was hell,” Ed confesses, candid, his voice distressingly devoid of all emotion. 

Oswald can only hum his agreement. 

He knows it, knows the punishment and madness that lurks behind those walls all too well. And both his stays in Gotham’s personal purgatory had only lasted a few months each. Ed had spent _ten years_ in the place. 

“While Blackgate was no walk in the park,” Oswald commiserates, the creeping dread of loneliness that hung over the place still fresh in his mind, “I can scarcely imagine.”

“Well, there was _one_ benefit.”

Oswald gives him a quizzical look, puzzled by the addition. He can’t think of _anything_ beneficial about being trapped at Arkham.

Ed reaches out, resting his palm lightly on the back of Oswald’s hand. 

"The second trip taught me to appreciate the small things," Ed confesses, shadows playing across his face from the dim glow of the fire, "helped me realize that, without you, I would have rotted away in there for years the first go-around. So thank you."

He squeezes Oswald’s wrist lightly, and a lump forms in the back of Oswald’s throat.

"Ed, there's no need to thank me,” he hurries to assure him, gesturing dismissively with his free hand. “After all these years, you owe me no gratitude.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree," Ed says, soft and serious. 

The hold on Oswald’s throat tightens. 

“Well,” he manages to choke out, glancing down to subtly wipe away the tear brimming in the corner of his good eye, “I don’t know about you, but I would actually _kill_ a man for a shower.”

Oswald stands abruptly, determined once more to put the vulnerable moment behind them by playing host. He fails to account for their still linked hands, startled by the resistance he feels until Ed cordially rises to his feet beside him. 

Just as he’s about to drop his grip and begin doling out a reminder that Ed knows where the guest bath is, there’s an abrupt tug on his hand. The sudden motion upsets his balance, and Oswald stumbles slightly forward.

Then he’s being dragged against Ed’s chest, Ed’s arms coming up to encircle him in a crushing hug. 

Oswald lets out a startled, entirely undignified squeak, overwhelmed by the sudden cacophony of sensations. The rough texture of Ed’s glittering coat beneath his cheek. The hard, lean press of Ed’s body against his own. The heady combination of musk and sweat and _Ed_ filling up his nostrils. 

Oswald is too stunned, at first, to do anything more than stand frozen in Ed’s embrace. After taking a moment to recover himself, he finally comes to his senses and wraps his arms around Ed’s slender waist, holding on just as fiercely. 

“I missed you,” Ed mumbles, face buried in the crook of Oswald’s neck as he clings to him like a lifeline. 

Oswald can’t remember the last time he saw Ed this raw, this emotionally unguarded. In fact, he’s not certain he _ever_ has. 

He grips Ed all the tighter, determined not to squander the moment.

“I missed you too, Ed,” Oswald breathes out against his shoulder, a confession and a vow. 

He feels Ed slacken slightly at the words, his body sinking further into him.

The circle closes, time folding in on itself. There they are, back in that dusty manor room, bathed in crackling firelight as they embrace each other tightly. The reverberations of their past, present, and future ripple through the air, a sense that it’s all been building right back to this moment. The door reopening on their one last chance. 

So they hold each other close, unwilling to let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long, long wait for this update, but! I came bearing a much longer word count this chapter, so hopefully that made up for it a teeny, tiny bit. 
> 
> As always, any keyboard smashing, flailing, and general squee is encouraged and welcomed! <3 I always look forward to hearing y'alls's thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

Ed releases a long, satisfied sigh as he steps out of the shower, the steam from the steady thrum of hot water having fogged over the mirror and left the tile under his feet slightly damp. As he towels off his hair, Ed reaches for the robe draped on the peg to the right of the shower curtain. He smiles as he pulls the familiar golden silk around himself, warmth fluttering in his chest. 

_“Well, at least we know my father’s robe fits you_.”

Oswald’s words when passing off the garment float back to him. As he delicately dropped the silky bathrobe on top of the towel he had already handed Ed, the tone of his voice called up the many memories embedded in that intricately embellished fabric. Nights just like tonight, intimate conversation and tight embraces in front of a warm fireplace, have etched their mark into the gold that drapes Ed’s skin.

Ed presses his face against his own shoulder, breathing in deeply as he buries his nose in that shimmering silk, hoping he’ll catch just a waft of Oswald’s scent still lingering after all these years. 

He’s disappointed to find no trace of that aroma, overpowered by the musky smell that clings to cloth after a decade shut up in the top of an unopened closet. Remnants of Oswald’s scent drift through the air all around him—the fine mix of lavender and patchouli from the shampoo Ed had borrowed, the fresh cleanness of his soap—but it still lacks that unmistakable undertone of _Oswald_ , the sharpness of salt and skin, tobacco and a hint of gunpowder.

As he reaches up to wipe the condensation off the mirror, Ed feels a pang of longing resound in his chest. That dull ache had been there on and off all evening, intensifying acutely when Ed had been forced to swivel away from the fond look in Oswald’s pale eyes and retire to the guest bathroom.

There had been something so undeniably sweet in their parting that the sensation had lingered, not even the pounding of the hot water against his aching muscles enough to wash it away. 

He frowns at his reflection, fingers reaching up to trace over the jagged, uneven edge of his hasty haircut, the one he had given himself that morning before venturing out to follow “Oswald’s” orders. One part of his mind had been firmly focused on making himself look presentable as he re-assumed his place on the Gotham stage. He wasn’t _vain_ , exactly, but public perception was everything. Ed knew from experience the importance of making a good second first impression. 

Another, of course, had been thinking of _Oswald_ , always _Oswald_ , and how to look his best for their reunion. His decision to adorn lipgloss had been made _firmly_ with the latter concern in mind, though that, as so many things, was firmly between Ed and himself. 

He purses his lips, trying to ignore the silver that has crept into his sideburns, the new lines drawn around the corners of his mouth. Arkham hadn’t afforded many opportunities for _literal_ self-reflection, and he finds the face staring back at him at once achingly familiar and hauntingly foreign, like a long-lost relative who’s come to visit after a decade spent apart. 

For a moment, that traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispers that he’s looking just a tad more like _dear old dad_ , but he quickly shuts the lid on that box, tamping down on the thought before it fully forms.

Ed brushes his bangs back, trying to approximate something of his old style as he combs the fringe into place with his fingers. That brown tuft of hair falls stubbornly right back into place. He toys with the idea of applying some gel to tame it before dismissing the notion as ridiculous, given he’s currently in the process of getting ready for bed. 

A concern for tomorrow then, as with so many things. Perhaps he’ll ask Oswald to even the cut out for him. He’d played barber for Ed once before, during No Man’s Land, and Ed sees no reason not to entrust him to do it again, if he’s interested. 

One corner of his mouth tics up at the memory of Oswald’s long, spindly fingers scraping against his scalp. 

_If he_ is _even interested_ , the voice pipes up helpfully again. 

Ed shuts his eyes firmly, trying to collect himself. The thought of Oswald, the couch, the hug sends butterflies shooting through his stomach, swirling in nauseating flutters. 

Ed hadn’t...split at Arkham. Not exactly. The stability of the sub plan, of reunification, of _Oswald_ ,had helped Humpty Dumpty put himself back together again. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t been a struggle sometimes, during his incarceration, to hold onto all the pieces, not let the puzzle break apart. 

He breathes deeply, fingers digging painfully into the cold marble of the sink counter. Worries at his lip as he realizes he may have to face facts, sort through his fears and let his feelings wash over him.

_“Some things must be confronted, Mr. Nygma.”_

Dr. Quinzel’s voice sing-songs in his mind. Ed frowns bitterly, irritated his shrink has managed to sink her claws quite so deeply into his gray matter. 

Letting out a heavy sigh, he lets the images flash before his eyes. Oswald, looking iridescent in the soft glow of the fireplace. The way thrills had shot up Ed’s spine every time Oswald touched his hand, held it. How safe he had felt, and warm, holding Oswald, letting himself be held by him, hugging one another close when they hadn’t been able to so much as touch in years. Ed had always been reticent with his touch, choosy. But with those he truly cared about, Ed showed his affection through tactile exchanges, craved it. He had missed it desperately in the intervening period. He hadn’t even realized quite how _much_ until he found himself taking advantage of the opportunity for casual contact once more.

He _had known_ he loved Oswald, but that. Something as simple as a hug intoxicated him, overwhelming his senses. Even the memory of it is enough to form a lump in his throat, choke him of all words. 

It all felt so reminiscent of that night on the couch during Oswald’s mayorship. The fire blazing, Ed in this same robe. Bruises around his throat seizing his words then, the zing of ginger tea with honey. The crushing weight and warmth of Oswald’s arms, circled tightly around him.

That night, just for one brief, fragile moment, Ed had felt a shift in the air, struck with the sneaking suspicion that they were on the precipice of _something_ more. At the time, Ed could hardly have put a name to it, but the intervening years have illuminated the nature of that growing connection Ed felt between them. That it hadn’t been one-sided, as he’d virulently insisted in the wake of so much pain and betrayal and heartache. 

He had felt it _too_. Then, and now. 

_I can’t be bought, but I can be stolen with a glance. I’m worthless to one, but priceless to two. What am I?_

Ed had it. The answer to the riddle he spent so long denying needed solving. And yet…

And yet, Oswald had pulled away, just as he had that night after the incident at the Sirens. He’d stepped up to that threshold only to back away twice now. Ed had thought Oswald had been leaning in to complete the cycle, seal the new beginnings of their partnership with a kiss. 

But then he’d turned abruptly, as though he couldn’t look away from Ed fast enough. Ed swallows hard reliving it, chest knotting, stomach sinking like a stone. 

Ed is finally _here_ , ready to meet Oswald halfway. He’s stretched out his hand at long last, but he’s struck to the bone with the fear that he may be too little, too late. Maybe, in true Edward Nygma fashion, he’s finally shown up to the party only to find the party’s finished without him. 

_No_. 

The declaration resounds within the cavity of his chest as he catches his own gaze in the mirror. He clenches his jaw, steely and resolved. 

Perhaps he is too late. But he’s determined to get it _right_ this time, whatever path that leads them down. To see this through, not let another opportunity slip through his fingers. 

Wherever it leaves their partnership, Oswald deserves the truth. Even if he only allows Ed to tell him this one time. 

Ed won’t lose him. Not again.

He grins at his reflection, sees the own glint of his teeth winking back at him. His image cocky and self-assured, a counter to the nervous thrumming of his pulse. 

Edward Nygma has never backed down from a challenge. He doesn’t intend to start now. 

  


There’s a swift, measured rap at the master suite door. 

“Come in,” Oswald calls out, and waits. 

He smiles a little at the decorum when Ed fails to waltz into the room, rising from the bed to open it.

Ed is standing in the middle of the hall. The vision he paints—damp hair curled against his forehead from the shower, the golden fabric of Oswald’s father’s robe falling just above his knee, bare legs looking impossibly long where they stretch out beneath the hem—disarms Oswald completely. 

He bites his lip, closing his eyes briefly, a feeble effort not to look completely dumbstruck. There’s a connotation, here, of Ed standing outside the door to his bedroom in nothing but a bathrobe, that makes Oswald’s blood rush. 

Ed’s eyes light up slightly when he catches sight of Oswald, though his back remains ramrod straight, far more reserved than he had been earlier in the evening. The sense of déjà vu that carefully formal posture gives Oswald is dizzying. 

A moment’s pause passes between them as Oswald gazes up at Ed expectantly, waiting for him to speak. He wonders if Ed is still feeling the tension from their earlier embrace as strongly as he is.

“Yes, Ed?” he finally prompts when Ed continues to be unforthcoming. “Is everything alright?”

Ed brings a fist up to his mouth as he clears his throat, looking strangely...lost. 

“I’ve just realized an oversight, on my part,” Ed says, letting out a soft, awkward little laugh as he rubs at the back of his neck. “I don’t have anything to wear to bed.”

“Oh, forgive my manners!” Oswald says, startled and trying desperately not to flush at the images Ed’s statement conjures in his mind. “I’m sure we can find something for you.”

He turns abruptly into the hall, ostensibly to lead Ed into the spare bedroom that had once served as his own. That the move provides an opportunity to cover up the heat he worries may have stained his cheeks is just a happy bonus.

Once inside, Oswald crosses the room swiftly, feeling more than seeing Ed still on his heels. Pulling open its ancient wooden doors, Oswald briefly disappears inside the ornate antique bureau. After a moment of rifling, he emerges triumphant, holding an unmistakable pair of flannel green pajama pants and a white t-shirt.

He deposits the carefully folded bundle into Ed’s outstretched arms, giving them a clumsy pat.

“There you are. I...believe these are yours, from when you were living here,” Oswald says, trying not to look sheepish. 

It’s a lie. Oswald doesn’t _believe_ , he _knows_ for a fact the garments are Ed’s,a vestige of that long-ago life the pair had lived together. When Ed had abandoned it all, he’d left many of his belongings, including most of his wardrobe, behind. Oswald, rather embarrassingly, had preserved many little mementos of the time Ed spent in the Van Dahl manor, even after all these years. 

Even as intimately familiar with his own painful sentimentality as he is, staring down at Ed’s sleepwear serves as a rather transparent reminder of Oswald’s attachment to their shared past.

Which is why Oswald is so infinitely relieved when Ed doesn’t call his bluff, merely reaches to lay his hand over Oswald’s where it remains atop the proffered clothing, giving it a light squeeze.

“Thank you,” Ed says, too earnest and serious again as he peers into Oswald’s eyes.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Oswald replies, voice slightly strained as he admits, “they’re your things, Ed.”

Ed quirks his lips, and the two men share a tentative smile. The moment lingers, silence stretching on a tad too long between them as they stare at one another. 

“Well,” Ed says, pulling his arms away to hold up the clothes in his arms, his smile turning abashed. “I suppose I’d better...get to it, then.” 

“Oh, yes, I guess you’d better,” Oswald says, still somewhat dazed from the headiness of their prior exchange.

When he fails to take the cue, Ed blinks down at him expectantly, gaze dropping to indicate the piles of flannel fabric in his arms once more.

“Oh!” Oswald stutters, feeling that heat creep into his cheeks once more. “Yes! Of course. I’ll just...leave you to it, then.”

Ed gives him a curt nod as he turns to leave. As Oswald pulls the door shut behind him, he grips the handle hard, wincing at his own tactlessness. 

  


It’s mere moments later when Ed finds himself once more outside Oswald’s room. 

This time, the door is open, Oswald no doubt having failed to close it from their previous encounter. Ed steps into the doorway, then hesitates, hovering at the threshold. 

“Oswald?” he calls, more clipped than he means to be.

Oswald starts slightly at the sound of his voice, pausing in his night time preparations as he looks up at Ed in surprise.

“Yes, Ed?” he replies, uncertainty tinging the word.

Ed drums his fingers against the doorframe, trying to work up the nerve to push the request from his lips, force it up from where it’s lodged in his throat. He can feel some of his confidence from earlier fading as the rush he’d felt simply from being _free_ of Arkham at long last begins to recede. 

“Oswald,” he starts again, trying to steady himself, “could I—”

A sharp, manic laugh bubbles up from his chest, the anxious, tittering sound cutting off his words. Doubt gnaws at him again, sudden and sharp, as he’s riddled with an abrupt flood of self-consciousness. Ed tries not to shrink away from Oswald’s gaze as the realization of the nature of his inquiry hits him, crawling over his skin. If Oswald rebuffs him over something at once so simple and yet so meaningful as this, Ed thinks he might crumple into a ball, shrivel up and blow away. 

“You know what?” he says, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Nevermind.” 

Ed makes an ‘x’ with his arms, slashing the air in front of him as he untangles them, a figurative time out. 

“Forgive me, that would be...completely inappropriate.”

Oswald blinks up at him, those pale eyes so soft and kind, it makes Ed pause, swallowing hard.

“What is it, Ed?”

Ed feels like he could drown in the earnest concern marring the lines of Oswald’s face. 

He’s reminded, as he has been off and on all night, of his waning defenses. As he’d told Oswald in front of the fireplace, that invaluable ability to tamp down on his emotions has been worn away by the long years spent in gray padded cells, with only lunatics for company. His feelings brim far too close to the surface. He’s forgotten how to bring himself to heel. 

And, yet, he still feels more himself than he has in ten years. His thoughts are clearer, sharper, now that he’s tied up with Oswald once more, his presence a steady reassurance at his side. Oswald the string tugging Ed’s disparate parts back together again, like he has so many times before. Grounding him in a way no one else has. In a way no one else _does_. 

He’s not ready to give that up again, not for a moment. The thought of being away from Oswald for even one night is too much to bear. 

“Would you mind if I spent the night in your room?” he blurts, rubbing at his ear as he shoots Oswald a cagey look, hopeful around the edges.

Oswald’s mouth falls open at the words, gaping helplessly at him. The silence that falls between them makes Ed shift on his feet, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Forget I said anything,” Ed rushes to fill the silence, waving a dismissive hand in the air as he tries hopelessly for casual. “It was foolish of me to even ask. I’ll just—”

He gestures blindly behind himself, feet pedaling backwards, getting ready to scramble back to the guest room.

The expression of utter shock melts from Oswald’s face as he makes a desperate grab for Ed’s wrist, halting him in place.

“Of course, old friend,” he concedes in a huff, like a breath he can no longer hold in. “Of course you can stay here with me.” 

Ed’s shoulders droop at the assent, all the tension draining from his body in an instant. 

“Thank you,” he says with quiet, rigid sincerity.

He schools his expression into something carefully neutral, a desperate bid to keep a cap on the messy, transparent longing currently spinning in his chest. 

“Anything for an old friend,” Oswald says, light and airy as he pats Ed’s arm.

Then he lets go of Ed’s wrist, and Ed has to clench his hand into a fist to keep from scrambling for Oswald’s again, wishing he could hold his touch in place on his skin just a little bit longer. 

Oswald turns his back to him, crossing the room to the bed and beginning to fuss with his things on the nightstand. Ed follows suit, shuffling over to the other side of the room. He lingers at the bedside as Oswald fluffs up the pillows and pulls down the duvet before climbing onto the mattress.

Oswald offers Ed a hesitant smile once he’s finally settled, patting the left side of the bed almost...shyly in invitation. Ed waits no longer, sliding in beside him in one smooth, fluid motion. 

He removes his glasses, handing them to Oswald to place on the bedside table. There’s a faux domesticity to it that sends a delighted thrill up Ed’s spine. 

As Ed settles back on the pillow, Oswald reaches up and clicks off the light, plunging the room into darkness. 

They lie facing one another. Ed can just barely make out Oswald’s sharp profile from the small beam of light that slips in between the curtains. He wishes he could see him fully, know if those light mismatched eyes were staring back at him in the darkness.

Ed’s skin itches from the stimulation of new sensations. The bed is too soft, the air too quiet, the room too black.

The silence in particular unnerves him, in such stark contrast with night after night at the Asylum, dozing restlessly to the other inmates’ screams. His own screams, on occasion. 

But Ed finds the steady rise and fall of Oswald’s breathing so near soothing. He tries to tether himself to that steady rhythm, inhaling and exhaling in time with Oswald, syncing himself to the sound.

Even so, the narrow space in the bed between them feels like an impasse, an impenetrable gulf. It’s almost worse, in a way. To be so close yet still so far away.

Ed inches his hand into that cool patch of no man’s land between their bodies, searching. Finally, he finds what he’s looking for, clutching Oswald’s hand and tugging it into the empty gap at the center of the mattress. He feels Oswald startle, letting out a shallow gasp as Ed presses their palms together, Oswald’s fingers spasming lightly against his own. 

“Tell me,” he murmurs with urgency, even as he tries to keep his tone calm, steady, _stable_ , “if this isn’t okay, please, just... _tell me_. I promise I’ll let go.”

Oswald’s fingers flutter against his palm, fragile like butterfly’s wings. Then they interlock with Ed’s own, Oswald’s grip strong and firm where he tangles their fingers together. 

“I can assure you, Edward, it’s more than okay.” 

Oswald squeezes his hand, and the corners of Ed’s lips quirk up into a smile, even as he’s almost certain Oswald can’t see it.

Ed's spent most of his life feeling like he was standing on a precipice, one misstep away from slipping over the edge into oblivion. Funny, how often it's these same two hands reaching out and dragging him back. Gangster's hands, murderer's hands, too large and spindly. Hands made for maiming and torturing, permanently stained with blood.

They feel gentle, where they grip Ed's so tightly, warm as they drag him back into reality, as they have so many times before.

After a moment, he feels Oswald’s breathing even out beneath his palm, but his grasp on Ed’s hand never slackens. Ed drifts off into sleep, his mind finally quieting at the steady, reassuring pressure of their hands clasped tightly together in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any shouting, keyboard smashing, and general squee, as always, is welcomed and appreciated! <3 I always love getting to chat with y'all about these two precious idiots.


	5. Chapter 5

Oswald comes to in a daze, surrounded by darkness, uncertain where he is. He takes a few deep, steadying breaths, the nightmare that had dragged him back to consciousness now nothing more than a few hazy images at the edge of his mind. The deep, penetrating feeling of dread, however, lingers on in the pit of his stomach. 

As his mind begins to clear, he becomes rapidly aware of a warm mass pressing against his side and the presence of a strong limb wrapped around his middle, holding him in place. Realization dawns, the pieces clicking together all at once.

He’s not alone in the room. 

Moving swiftly, Oswald yanks the knife out from under the edge of his mattress and presses it against his would-be assailant’s throat.

Two large hands reach up and wrap around Oswald’s own, clasping it between them, an attempt to still his movements. There’s the muffled sound of limbs flailing against the mattress, and then Oswald is on his back, that shadowy figure looming over him. 

Oswald thrashes wildly. A sharp, bony arm presses down against his wrist, pinning him into place.

“Oswald!” an urgent voice issues out of the blackness all around him. “It’s me!” 

Oswald blinks, his good eye clearing, finally adjusting to the low light from the sliver of moon spilling in through the bedroom curtains. 

Ed's face swims into his line of vision, all large dark eyes and sharp sculpted cheekbones. So similar to their second first meeting, when Oswald came out of a pain-addled fatigue to find that bright, eager face looming over him. 

Oswald feels a sharp, horrified pang seize in his chest at the sudden sight of that oft longed for profile, achingly familiar despite its only presence in the last ten years through half-remembered dreams. A face that has become even more beloved in its long absence.

He wonders, for an instant, if he's dreaming it now, until the previous evening comes rushing back to him.

"Oswald," Ed repeats, voice low and soothing, the urgency dropping out of it as Oswald’s body goes slack beneath his, "it's me. It's just me."

“Ed!” Oswald calls out, dropping the knife to the floor with a clatter. 

He tugs at his arms, and Ed releases them instantly. Oswald reaches up immediately to cover his face with his hands. 

“Ed,” he gasps, strangled through the cage of his fingers, “Ed, I’m so sorry—”

“Shh,” Ed shushes, sliding off of Oswald’s body in one swift motion and rolling until he is once again pressed firmly against his side. 

Oswald still can’t look at him, hiding his face in his arms. He flinches slightly when Ed reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, relaxing only when Ed’s touch remains steady, his hand running soothingly down the length of his arm.

“It’s okay, Oswald,” he murmurs, close enough his breath tickles Oswald’s ear. “It’s alright. We’re alright.” 

Oswald finally lowers his hands, turning his head to look at Ed in the moonlight. Ed’s brow is furrowed, face full of so much open concern it makes Oswald’s heart stutter in his chest, his breath hitch.

“I’m so afraid this isn’t real,” he confesses into the small space between them, barely more than a whisper. 

The irrational fear that anything louder than that will break the spell paralyzes him, seizing his body with the bone-deep dread that one wrong word will shatter the illusion. That the image of Ed at his side will dissipate like so much dust on the wind, leaving him alone once more.

Ed's gaze is steady on his face, eyes lit up with an expression so openly hungry and full of longing, it takes all of Oswald’s willpower not to duck his head and shy away from the unnerving intensity of his stare. He’s looking at him like he might vanish, as though if he blinks or looks away for even an instant, Oswald might disappear forever. A mirror image of every tangled up emotion currently churning in Oswald’s stomach reflected perfectly back at him on Ed’s face. 

Oswald feels an ache in his chest, the dizzying sense of kinship that cuts to his core spreading out through his limbs in a warm tingle. He has only ever felt affinity this deep with one person, the man currently curled up at his side.

Ed reaches forward, brushing back the hair currently laying flat and loose against Oswald’s forehead, for once not stiff with product.

“Me, too,” Ed whispers back, so earnest Oswald has to bite down on his lip to contain the sob that threatens to shudder out of his chest. 

Looking into Ed’s too understanding eyes, Oswald’s whole body tenses, a warring swirl of yearning and doubt freezing him to the spot. Then, against a lifetime of instinct, the request rushes from his lips, almost of its own accord.

“Hold me,” Oswald hears himself murmur, voice cracking on the words, “please.”

Ed’s arms wrap around him without hesitation, instinctively folding Oswald against his chest.

Oswald goes boneless at the feel of Ed’s body encircling him, burying his face in the soft fabric of his pajamas and taking a deep inhale of the oft longed-for scent of crisp, green ozone underneath his own shampoo. Ed rubs soothing circles into his back, continuing to shush him softly. 

This too is familiar, in its way, long-buried muscle memory coming back to the surface. 

It’s painfully reminiscent of the memories he’d conjured up earlier in the evening. Of those nights they'd spent sharing the single bed in Ed's old apartment, when Ed would hold him everytime he woke up weeping for his mother, and neither of them ever said a word about it. Of the period just after Ed had moved into the mansion, both of them still fragile and raw from their first respective go-arounds at Arkham. The rhythmic shuffle from room-to-room, waking the other up whenever the screaming started. 

Seeking out comfort had come easy in those early days of friendship. It doesn't come nearly as naturally now, asking for help, for either of them. But the comfort, when offered, still feels second-nature.

As Ed holds him, he begins humming, a soft, delicate melody Oswald knows so well he feels it resonate in the marrow of his bones. 

By the time Ed’s on the third bar of “My Mother’s Love,” it’s already far too close to those early days of their friendship, too reminiscent of his now long-dead mother, for Oswald to handle. He lets out a strangled sob, trying to muffle it by nudging his face more firmly into Ed’s chest.

He wonders idly if they’re fated to repeat this cycle, over and over again, retracing their steps in an unending loop and coming to the same doomed conclusion everytime.

But Ed just clings to him, steady and solid, continuing to hum that calming strain until Oswald’s sobs quiet and then, eventually, stop altogether.

“Better?” Ed asks softly once he’s fallen completely silent, arms still firm around Oswald. 

Oswald nods against his shoulder, too afraid of the way his voice might tremble and break if he tries to speak. 

After another long moment, he forces himself to pull back slightly.

“Yes,” he finally answers, not yet looking up at Ed as he wipes at the dampness on his face. “Much. Thank you.”

Ed reaches forward and nudges Oswald’s hand away, wordlessly brushing the tears from his cheeks with long, gentle fingers. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says as he mops up the last, lingering wetness, giving Oswald a soft smile.

Oswald knows they are too old and too cruel to be allowed something this tender, this fragile, this _good_. 

But, then again, they _had_ made a pact, all those years ago, to take what they wanted. So maybe they could take this for themselves. 

Though Oswald had pulled away, Ed doesn’t let him get far, keeping him in the circle of his arms, their knees still brushing from the proximity. Oswald finds himself tentatively sliding his hand down Ed’s forearm to cradle his elbow, holding Ed as Ed holds him.

He draws in a sharp intake of breath when Ed reaches up and strokes a hand down his cheek. His fingers trace over the barely visible scar tissue under Oswald’s injured eye with unexpected delicacy before settling along Oswald’s jawline. Oswald can’t help leaning into the gentle touch as he meets Ed’s steady gaze, those intense, dark eyes. Ed studies his face carefully, drinking in the sight of him like a man quenching his thirst after a long drought.

“I fly without wings, and can slay kings. Though I am priceless, I devour all things,” Ed recites, warmth pooling in Oswald’s stomach at the rumbling, measured rhythm of his voice, “I can be measured, but never seen. Yet how you miss me when I flee. What am I?”

Oswald purses his lips, feeling almost... _ashamed_ to meet Ed’s words with silence. Riddles have long proven _not_ to be his forte. He silently curses his lack of foresight. He should have made more of a study of them while he was in Blackgate.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment’s hesitation, “but I think I might be too tired for riddles, old friend.”

“Time,” Ed answers, brushing a strand of silvery black hair out of Oswald’s eyes. 

"We're not young men anymore, Edward," Oswald murmurs, wistful at the answer, unable to keep the mournful note from his voice. 

"I know," Ed replies, fingers lingering at Oswald's hairline, a gesture more tender and reverent than Oswald knew him to be capable of. "That's why I’m trying my best not to waste anymore of it.” 

“Carpe diem,” Oswald agrees with a nod. “Fortune favors the brave.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Ed says, giving him a fond smile, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “I hope it will smile on me for _finally_ being brave enough to seize the moment.”

With that, he leans down into Oswald’s space, face so close their noses brush.

“What—” Oswald stutters, “what are you doing?” 

The look Ed gives him is warm enough to melt even the iciest shards of doubt in his chest.

“Finally taking an old friend’s advice,” he says, his breath tickling Oswald’s skin, “and following my heart.”

Then, Ed tips Oswald's face up with his fingers and kisses him soundly on the mouth. 

A moment of tense hesitation passes, Oswald frozen in place like a deer in the headlights, barely able to comprehend the careful brush of Ed’s mouth against his. Then, he melts into Ed, like a marionette with too taut strings finally cut free by the gentle snip of Ed’s lips, the sharpest of scissors. He’s unable to stop the helpless whimper he releases into Edward's mouth, the sound that comes out of his throat absolutely ragged as he slumps into the solidness of his body.

They kiss for long moments, robbing Oswald of his senses. Minutes pass before he’s able to wrangle himself under control enough to press a hand against Ed’s chest and push him back gently, their lips still only a hair’s breadth apart.

“Edward,” he whispers against the curve of his mouth, trying to make his voice firm as he shies away from Ed's hand on his face, “maybe we should discuss this.”

“Oswald,” Ed replies, voice steady, without an ounce of uncertainty, “I spent ten _long_ years in Arkham. The _one_ positive thing I can say for that hell hole is that having all that time on my hands to think was...illuminating. I whittled away many endless hours contemplating what I'd do if I ever managed to get out of there, and _this_ ,” he grips the collar of Oswald’s pajama top tightly, “was at the top of that list.”

Then he leans forward and punctuates his point with another kiss. Silence settles around them as Ed pulls back to look at him, blinking down at Oswald with those soft brown eyes. Oswald is mesmerized by the open adoration shining out of Ed’s face, an expression Oswald hasn’t seen from him in so long, he’d honestly forgotten what it felt like to be on the receiving end of it. 

Apparently, the silence lingers too long for Ed, and it’s his turn to retreat slightly, a sudden look of hesitancy coming over his face. 

“Oh,” he says, pulling his head back abruptly, his lips ghosting over Oswald’s cheek, “oh, oh dear. Unless...I _have_ misjudged the situation. It has, after all, been ten years. Perhaps—” his voice wavers, eyes cutting to consider Oswald sharply, “perhaps you no longer feel the same.”

The uncertainty in his words is foreign, a flash beneath the surface. The way he bows his head, voice wavering is far more in line with the bubbly, bespectacled forensic scientist Oswald had met all those years ago than the confident, self-assured Riddler he’s grown into.

Oswald cuts off Ed’s anxious babbling with a hand around his wrist, Ed stilling immediately at the careful touch

“My dearest Edward,” Oswald says, embarrassed to hear his own voice breaking with emotion as he musters on in spite of it, “I never stopped.”

Edward's entire face lights up, his manic joy erasing the weary strain of ten long years spent in Arkham from his features. 

He takes both of Oswald's hands in his own.

“You—you didn't?” he asks, sounding hesitant and hopeful all at once.

Oswald shakes his head, unable to keep the melancholy note out of his voice.

“I never even came close,” he admits, his entire body sagging with the relief of such a long carried secret finally unburdened.

Ed surges forward. This time, the kiss he pulls Oswald into is sloppy and rough in his overeagerness, teeth clashing in a sea of devouring, open-mouthed kisses. Oswald meets him in kind, his hands surging up to grip the back of Ed’s head, fingers tangling in his messy brown locks.

Oswald lets out a whine when Ed pulls away, mournful for the sudden loss of Ed’s mouth. 

“What?!” Oswald pants, all but a demand as Ed eyes him speculatively.

“Are _you_ sure?” Ed asks, squinting down at him, skepticism suddenly creeping into his voice. “You said you wanted to talk.” 

“Ed,” Oswald huffs, exasperated, “if you don’t get back here and kiss me this instance, I will have you gutted.” 

Ed’s eyes sparkle at the words.

“Yes, sir,” he whispers, low and throaty against Oswald’s ear, and Oswald’s whole body shudders as Ed drags him back into the kiss. 

They kiss for long moments, facing each other, until they're breathless. Eventually, Ed pulls back, panting, the room suddenly flooded with the sound of their heavy breathing. But he doesn’t go far, dipping back in to pepper kisses along the bridge of Oswald’s nose, the fullness of his cheek, the faded scarring around his eye. Like he really can’t get enough, now that the moment has arrived, too eager to consume every little morsel of Oswald on offer.

Oswald finds himself in much the same state. He matches Ed kiss for kiss, his mouth wandering to the tip of Ed’s nose, the faint lines at the corner of his mouth, his graying temples. They fumble together in the dark, noses bumping, teeth clashing, hands grappling. Equal parts struggle and dance, both showering the other with that same burning, devouring affection. 

Gripping Ed’s shoulder tightly, Oswald feels the thin, white cotton under his palm, the sharp jut of Ed’s bones under the pressure. The sensations alone seem fit to overwhelm him. The faint scent of Ed’s skin tickling his nose. The teasing nip of his teeth against Oswald’s jugular. The feel of his body, hot and hard, pressed against Oswald’s own. His head swims with it, every small reminder that this is _Ed_ in his arms intoxicating enough for Oswald to drown in.

Oswald slides his hand slowly downward, fabric giving way as his fingers trace over Ed’s skin, then further to the down on his forearms. He briefly tangles their fingers together, Ed squeezing back tightly as Oswald tugs his hand up to his mouth. As he presses a chaste kiss to each of Ed’s knuckles, he swears he can make out Ed’s eyes glistening even in the cover of darkness. 

“Oswald,” Ed sighs, voice soft and full of emotion, like it had been back in the limo when he'd whispered Oswald's name like a benediction.

Ed leans forward and surprises Oswald when he doesn't go in for another kiss, instead pressing their foreheads together, closing his eyes and humming contentedly.

“I dreamt about this. About _you_ ,” he confesses, eyes still shut. 

“I imagine it wasn’t _exactly_ like this,” Oswald says, self-deprecating and droll.

His own eyes drop to where the buttons of his pajama top gap around his additional girth, and he lifts his hand to brush self-consciously at his silver-streaked hair. When he looks up to study Ed’s face again, he finds Ed’s heated gaze meeting his, dark eyes hungry and bright.

“No,” Ed agrees, breathless, “this is much, _much_ better than I could have imagined.”

Palm sliding up to Oswald’s shoulder, Ed rolls Oswald firmly but gently onto his back. Then he’s swinging one long leg over to straddle him, pushing Oswald back into the sheets as he pins him with his hips. Oswald gasps at the sudden friction, the hot, electric press of Ed against him. 

Ed leans down and crushes their lips together, licking his way into Oswald’s mouth, greedy and demanding. Oswald’s hands slide up under the soft cotton of Ed’s night shirt, groping at his heated skin, both desperate for an anchor and burning with the need to touch every inch of Ed he can reach. Ed is just as ferocious, fumbling open the top buttons of Oswald’s night shirt, one hand digging into the soft flesh of his side. 

Then Ed’s hand slips lower, curiously, tentatively to the waistband of Oswald’s pants, fingers teasing at the hem. Oswald sucks in a sharp breath, keening low in his throat.

“You can’t imagine how long I’ve wanted this,” he hears himself pant deliriously, stringing kisses along Ed’s collarbone, “Wanted you. _Such_ a long time. God, _Ed_!” 

Ed pulls back momentarily, and an extremely undignified whimper issues from the back of Oswald’s throat. He blinks slowly, breathtaking and powerful, like a predator surveying his prey. That wide Cheshire smile gradually spread over his face, teeth gleaming in the moonlight, until he’s grinning wickedly down at Oswald in answer.

“Have me then,” Ed rumbles, all challenge as he rubs at the front of Oswald’s silky pajama pants, making him hiss. “I’m yours for the taking.” 

Want ripples through Oswald, feverish and all-consuming. He bares his teeth, blood rushing, and then he’s yanking Ed towards him, wrapping his arms around him with the full force of his strength. 

Ed lets out a guttural whine of pleasure as their bodies crash together, Oswald pulling them both under the tide. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We draw near the finish line! As always, any comments, kudos, and general flailing are welcome and greatly appreciated!! <3 I always look forward to getting to hear y'all's thoughts on these dumb boys and their shenanigans.


End file.
